


Two Months Since

by Casijaz



Series: Merlin: Of the Mists Surrounding Camelot [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 14:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10191800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casijaz/pseuds/Casijaz
Summary: Two months have passed since the Battle of Camlann and the death of King Arthur. Merlin tries to cope with his unfinished destiny, and learns there might be an end to it after all.Discl: Merlin belongs to the BBC, I do not claim rights on any of the canonical Merlin characters nor plot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first try-out for an actual fanfic, instead of one that's a remix of my old work or a lot of meta. Constructive criticism is very welcome indeed!  
> Edit: Originally published on 2017-03-09, I made some changes on 2017-09-28.
> 
> Other ships so the ship tags won't get clotted up:  
> \- slight Freya/Merlin (Merlin)  
> \- implied Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)  
> \- slight Gwaine/Percival (Merlin)  
> They used to be up there with the other ship tags but since it's only mentioned in passing I felt like they shouldn't be up there. Imagine wanting a good Gwaine/Percival fic and instead you're presented with a sad Merlin :\

Two months had passed since the Battle of Camlann. Yet Merlin could vividly recall the blood spilled on the Plains, the clash of swords, and the bitter loss of most of what he held dear.

Two nights before he’d woken up in sweat, assaulted by the memory of the stinging smell of burning men. While in his vision red had completely flushed the scene due to the eventual dawning of the dusk, all he could remember was a barren and iced landscape filled with cold bodies. Any warmer tints appeared to him as Morgana’s dread fire and the spilled guts of dead soldiers. In the midst of all that carnage he had found Arthur’s body, lying twisted on the ground wrapped in his red cloak.

He found a dying man, and die he did.

The destiny he’d fought for with tooth and nail had not come to pass, a destiny that shaped his life for the past eight winters, if not longer. Without his destiny, Merlin felt but purposeless. Yet the feeling that had formed most of his torment for the past months had come in the form of regret. No, not regret. A feeling of dread that crept out of his chest and filled his eyes with tears. A failure in actions that led to the crushing weight of failed responsibility. Debilitating at times. Shame.

In the shame of not being able to save all he wanted, Merlin had not returned to Camelot since. During his self-emplaced banishment, Merlin had spent his time with Kilgharrah. Kilgharrah grew weaker by the day, though Merlin’s old friend had agreed to try and reach out to the last surviving dragon before he passed.

Merlin’s failures, great and small in number simultaneously, formed a network of tangles he could not undo. As the last dragonlord Merlin had failed the young dragon. He felt it necessary to persuade Aithusa of their kinship. Surely forcing her to appear to him would inhibit the process of regaining their lost relationship.

After Kilgharrah had gained contact with the young creature, the older dragon left to rest up on the mountain that doomed over the lake of Avalon. Aithusa did not leave with him, nor did she stay with Merlin. The creature did still harbour hurt over the order Merlin had given her, and Morgana’s subsequent death.

As Merlin’s relationships frayed, the tangles of his failures multiplied, working in tandem to tear at Merlin’s heart and soul. In the days after Kilgharrah left, Merlin spent his time in solitude, in a state of continuous anticipation for the sight of a white dragon.

Not a week after, he spotted the crooked bend of one of her wings, flitting behind a tree. The creature had tried to hide from him so it seemed. When Merlin took further steps in her direction, she did not flee, letting Merlin come near her.

They spent their time together, mourning for the ones they had lost and cared about. The relationship that had been tied and tattered was not coming unbound, rather it started anew after the endless knots, ties, twists and shreds. Aithusa had given him a chance after he failed her, and for once after the battle, Merlin felt happiness again.

In fact, Aithusa had not approached him at first for she believed Merlin did not want her to. Now the creature accompanied him time to time during his days, leaving Merlin not completely on his own in the fate of exile.

However, even with Aithusa’s company Merlin could not shake the feeling of loss. He had lost and would lose again, if destiny had its way. Fickle as it was, it would not let Merlin rest in the Other World along with his friends and family. He was doomed to roam the earth until time had lost itself again, and even then he would still roam.

He’d been granted that information in the Crystal Cave. All he could see, all that could’ve been, all that should be and all that was mingled into his mind and showed him the truth of his powers. As magic incarnate, he would be immortal.

A world without companions nor kin, for even Aithusa would meet her end in a millennium, seemed unbearable. The thought of never having anyone who would understand or even comprehend the being Merlin was, implied an unending lifetime of loneliness Merlin could not withstand. Feelings like these would swell up on some days, others would form a whisper in the back of his mind. But they would always be there.

A well-estimated two months after that dreadful battle, those feelings had resurfaced. Merlin had woken up and it seemed his dreams echoed into his conscious state, for when he woke it felt like he still held Arthur’s lifeless body in his arms, a memory his dream had remembered.

Merlin pondered over the cluster of thoughts that clouded his mind as he walked through the woods near Camelot city. Often he had found his way back close to the citadel, but never dared to enter. As dusk approached, shades of red and yellow dyed the horizon, and darkened the waters of Avalon. The mountain still loomed over the lake, waking over the bodies Merlin had left there to rest.

That tell-tale sign of tiredness came over Merlin, who felt his body sag, yet his mind was restless. He laid his body near the lake’s shore and fell asleep on a bag, sheltered by a single tree. As he was swept to the world of the dreaming, Merlin could not but wish to stay there, as at least in memories he would not be alone. He could no longer care what happened to him in the world of the waking.

Just as he fell fast asleep, a distant voice called to him. “Merlin,” the voice softly whispered, “Merlin.” A voice so distinct he immediately recognised who called him. Freya.

He opened his eyes and was greeted by the bright full moon that lit up the lake, accompanied by stars that danced on its unfrozen waters. The cold of the night had sneaked into his body, yet there had been no snow fall nor frost near the edge of the lake. Surrounded by trees covered in shimmering white, the greenery surrounding the lake was still as green as it had ever been.

“Merlin,” the voice continued. It seemed Freya’s voice had followed him into the physical plane. Merlin looked in every direction around him, to no avail. “Merlin.” The voice grew stronger, louder, now. He got up from his sleeping spot, and tried to find the source of what woke him.

While trying to find any sign of Freya’s presence, a feeling began to lurk on the edges of his being, driving him to the edge of the lake. A pulling sensation led Merlin to the water, accompanied by the voice which was growing louder, still. “Merlin.” The voice beckoned, yet completely sweet in nature.

When Merlin had reached the shore he crouched down to see if the waters did more than reflect the moon and stars. A wave of joy hit Merlin, sprinkled by feelings of melancholy for his loss. Being greeted by Freya did nothing to stop the feelings of failure in Merlin, for he was sure he’d failed in saving her, too.

All of the sudden Freya’s gentle voice had stopped calling him. She simply looked at him from the other side of the water, slightly obscured by ripples and waves. Even when her full person was hidden from him, she still looked every bit the sweet, gentle and pretty soul Merlin had met all those years ago.

A characteristic grin started to form on Merlin’s face, yet it did not reach his eyes. He was not paid the same gesture by Freya, whose smile carried no depth and whose figure carried a sense of controlled emotional state.

“Freya,” Merlin spoke, in the hopes of provoking any kind of reaction. On her turn, she did.

Slowly Freya’s arms extended reaching the very end of the lake, the threshold between water and air. Her hands created waving motions, gesturing Merlin to follow her into the water. Merlin hesitated, but soon stood up and tentatively followed Freya into the water.

Without regard for his clothing, nor the temperature, Merlin felt contempt following Freya into whatever darkness she would pull him in. He simply walked, slid into the water until it reached his shoulders, Freya continuously gesturing to follow her.

Strangely enough, he felt at peace surrounded by the cold that put pressure on his skin. And he had simply continued to walk had Freya not stopped him, blissfully surrendering to the prickling but inviting arms of the lake, letting himself be swallowed until he exhaled his final breath.

Then Freya moved to his side and indicated a desire for Merlin to come closer to her. He delved deeper into the water, until Freya floated before him, and his chin was partially submerged. She cupped her hands, planted them on the parts of Merlin’s face that were surrounded by water, and softly pulled him down. Gently she dragged Merlin down into the deep, water now forming where he had stood not a minute ago.

By now, Merlin realised she did not want him to get swallowed by the deep, but wanted to share the waters with him. Together they floated, losing any indication of the world outside the waters of Avalon. Slowly, ever so slowly, Freya’s face came nearer to his. He had never known what a world without time would truly feel like, but the almost euphoric sensation made it seem like time had simply stopped all together.

He closed his eyes, and felt a feather-like touch on his lips. While Merlin could still not breathe underwater, he never once exhaled.

\-----------------------------------

The damp frost of the water had ceased to cut his skin, and was replaced by a most pleasant spring breeze. Merlin gasped for air and found the world around him smelling like greenery. When he opened his eyes, he found himself lying in the middle of grassland, surrounded by almost translucent mountains. The grass itself felt strangely warm, and incredibly soft in texture. Merlin realised he was no longer in the world of the living, but found himself in the fields of Elysium.

A strange mixture of panic and acceptance swept over Merlin, but before he could even address the manner of how he had ended up in this place, he noticed Freya sitting next to him, quietly. She smiled when they locked eyes, and helped him up so he could sit next to her.

“At last we can talk, Merlin. The waters won’t let me talk to you directly, so I had to contact you in your dreams.” Merlin’s mouth stood agape for a second, but the best reply he could give her at that point in time was a heartfelt embrace. He hadn’t held her in ages, even when she appeared to him to tell him of how to defeat Morgause. “Merlin,” she spoke after he released her, “do not worry.”

Merlin contemplated her for a second, and she continued. “I know what you must be thinking, Merlin. This is indeed the world of the dead, but you have not died. Your time, if it is ever to come, has not come yet.” She stood up and gestured for him to stand with her.

“Then why am I here, Freya,” he said while getting up, “there must be a reason.” As the last time he got to spend any time at all with her was in a damp cave trying to fight off undead soldiers, this trip to the Other World could prove very challenging.

Her smile left her face, but the softness stayed in her eyes. “You’ve guessed as much. I have not called you here for my own good, Merlin. The Goddess has summoned you.”

Merlin’s mind went blank. The Goddess, creator of nature, keeper of magic itself, had summoned him. In his life, he only once had the privilege of feeling any kind of blessing she bestowed on her people, when the White Goddess had freed his friend from the clutches of her own High Priestess.

“By the Gods, Freya, why would she summon me?” He felt his mind fill with dread and clutched his head while he slightly staggered backwards.

“Remember what your father told you Merlin. You are the son of the sea, sky and earth. Magic is woven into the nature of all worlds, and magic is nature. You are the son of the moon and the sun, nature and life, the huntress and the stag. You are the son of both your mortal parents and magic itself. Your destiny was forever tied to the very essence of magic, as you are magic embodied.” She spoke with the same sweet but regal tone she had taken on in the cave.

“How did you know what my father– ” he shook his head in disbelief. “That’s all good and done. I might have had a destiny once, but I failed in everything I had to do. I’ve seen foreign soldiers running along the Camelot borders, Freya. I’ve heard the sighs and whispers from travellers and citizens both, not even having the slightest hope for their future.”

Just as Freya was about to speak up, Merlin continued. “While there haven’t been any public executions for sorcery, the fear of magic still runs deep in their hearts. I’ve felt the pain of my kin slaughtered by anyone who believes they could take up action behind the backs of knights. Druids are still hiding among the trees.”

“And Arthur–” he stopped for a moment, pinched his eyes in the wake of painful feelings resurfacing. “Arthur is dead. The ‘Once and Future King’ our destiny wanted him to be, died in my arms.” He steeled himself, and answered with careful speech. “Our destiny died with him.”

The compassion in Freya’s eyes made Merlin almost regret his outburst, but what he had said was nothing but the truth. _Destinies are troublesome things_ , he had once told Arthur. It seemed that no matter whether destiny would play out or would end, it would cause nothing but peril and grief.

“Merlin I know the pain you must have gone through. We all have felt hurt, and all have lost those we loved. But please, know when I tell you this, destinies are not so easily broken.”

He fell quiet at that. “What do you mean destinies are not so easily broken? I’ve just told you all hope for my destiny has flown off. I’m pretty sure a dead king, a divided Albion and magic slowly disappearing in the world equals a broken destiny,” he huffed with exasperation.

“Destinies are not  single paths that play out without any input. A Destiny can be shaped, altered, by those who it concerns. The Goddess has granted you choice and opportunities to shape your own destiny multiple times, Merlin. Fate is that which you cannot fight. Destiny is something you need to work towards, with the help of yourself and others.” The winds swept up in the meadow, lifting Freya’s hair to dance on its paths.

“Your destiny has not ended Merlin.” She shifted and placed her face in an expression that indicated an unease with her own statements. “Truth be told, the Goddess made mistakes on her part, too.”

“How,” he asked, with a scowl on his face. Without any regard for what the truth might hold, at this point, he felt like he’d seen it all. “You mean the part where she tricked me into letting Mordred live?”

“The Goddess did not trick you, Merlin. She asked for your destiny to be fulfilled, that you would bring magic back to Albion, and you denied her that satisfaction. What happened was of your own doing.” Just as Merlin was about to interrupt, Freya stopped him. “The Goddess failed in the sense that she created two destinies, one is yours, the other you fought against.”

“Freya for the love of Albion please stop talking vaguely and just point out what exactly she did wrong. Because I’m still pretty sure it’s letting Mordred live!” Merlin was surprised at the almost boyish tone he’d used when exclaiming his frustration.

“Two destinies were created for the Goddess’ goal. Both would restore magic to Albion, but only one could succeed. The other would fall and be swept up by the victor. Your adversary was Morgana, High Priestess of Avalon, for a reason,” she stated with a pained expression.

Before he could ask her for more details, he was again, interrupted. “But I have not come to you to relay the Goddess’ regret, Merlin. She comes to you with one last choice, one last step in your destiny.” When Merlin’s eyebrow raised she remarked, “I’ll be as clear as possible, I promise you that Merlin.” He pondered, but at this point in his life any choice regarding his apparently not-so-failed destiny seemed better than any attempt at trying to end it all. He gestured for her to continue.

“The reason the Goddess created your destiny is related to magic. It forms the very fabric of this world, but it is slowly dying, Merlin. She needs you to choose for the fate of magic.”

A flash of shock went through Merlin. “Why does she need me to do that? Can’t she do that herself?”

Freya chuckled. “The Goddess always needs a mortal vessel, Merlin. Why do you think you needed to call her forth at the Cauldron of Arianrhod? Or why there’s even such a position as a High Priestess in the first place? She cannot completely touch the mortal world, which is why she needs us to do the work for her. Her power used to be stronger, but it has diminished with time and will fade into oblivion if you do not choose willingly.”

“Then tell me, what are my options, for whatever goal the Goddess wants.” He anxiously added, “I hope the Goddess’ purpose for me is not something destructive.”

“One’s the easier path. You simply walk away from all you know, and let time run its course. Magic will disappear from the world of mortals, but will manifest itself indefinitely in you. As Emrys, you will be endless, boundless. You will live to see kingdoms rise and fall, those around you grow with age and die, and stories of your destiny will make its way into the ears and hearts of people. Magic will not die for it is bound to the unlimited being that you are.”

This was the way of living Merlin had been trying to get used to. To see the world pass him by and live while experiencing everything and nothing at the same time. A torment he had wished on himself for punishment. Punishment he’d deserved for he had failed his destiny, friends and lov–

Freya started talking again, pulling him out of the network of thoughts he would strangle himself in, no doubt.

“The other requires sacrifice, determination and its results will not be immediate. Magic will define who you are and this will shape your path. Strength will guide you, courage will find you, love will bring balance. When the task seems over, that will merely be the beginning. You will trade immortality for a mortal life in which magic can flourish. You will be Emrys in memories alone. Those are your two paths, Merlin. Choose wisely.”

Merlin squinted his eyes, and sighed, “so I don’t think I’ll get a better explanation on some of those terms, will I?” Freya shook her head. “Two paths.”

Neither would bring back the ones he lost, nor would fix his mistakes. One path would involve an endless mission, where Merlin surely believed he would lose his mind in its solitude. The other would allow him to live somewhat of a life, and would have him see magic rise in the open instead of flickering out up till a single flame.

He gently grasped Freya’s hands, and intertwined their fingers. “I have seen enough people I care for die. I have seen what a life of loneliness does to a person, and I do not want to go through with that while I once had a better option.” He made the choice he thought his father could’ve made. “I choose for a life of magic that I can control, instead of letting it control me.” He smiled impishly, “I have already sacrificed so much I can do with a little more.”

Freya held his hands tight and returned his smile, “you have chosen your own destiny Merlin. When you return to the world of the living, your path will become clear to you. The Goddess only asks that you seek the nearest camp of druids, and pledge loyalty to her.”

Merlin nodded slightly, and pressed back gently. “Seeing that I’ve chosen my path, I guess this will be our goodbye.”

While tears fell from neither cheek, they welled in their eyes at the thought of having to part so soon. Freya got up on her toes, and kissed him softly on the cheek, a gesture that made Merlin close his eyes in peace. “Soon Merlin, we will meet again, and will talk of other things than destiny.” Merlin let go of Freya’s hands as they fell to her sides. “Open your eyes Merlin. Merlin. Open your eyes.”

He did, and was immediately surrounded by the oppressive force of cold water, letting out a breath he didn’t remember holding.

\-----------------------------------

The smell of festering corpses had rolled down the white mountains into the valleys beneath, filling the air with the putrid smell of men two months dead. While Iseldir could understand the reason recovering the bodies in the aftermath had been slow, the smell lingered and did little to appease the senses.

The Goddess, consort to the Horned God of fire and life, had granted him a visit that night. He was to go to the lake of Avalon, where he would meet Emrys, and the purpose of his visit would make itself known. Iseldir’s life had been characterized by acting on the Gods’ desires, and he wished for nothing more but to please them. The vision he had been shown was lacking in context, and it was only after it was interpreted by the elders that he knew where to go.

He had come from the forest, out of hiding among the trees, unprotected into the valleys away from Camelot city. As he neared the lake of Avalon, its usually calm waters waved restlessly. The moon rippled in its reflection, but Iseldir could see nothing which could be a message from the Gods, nor indicate Emrys’ presence.

Then out of the water surfaced a dark-haired man, gasping for air. Iseldir felt taken aback for a bit, as the winter’s frost would surely make swimming a very unpleasant experience. The man flailed in the water for a bit, but it seemed he had found solid ground soon enough. Iseldir took off his robe to pass to the freezing man, when he noted his face. Emrys.

Emrys rose from the water unnerved by the seasons, and walked towards Iseldir with a look of apprehension on his face. “Emrys. I expected you,” Iseldir said while handing him the robe.

Emrys held the robe for a while, almost studying it, then turned to Iseldir. “I take it you will take me to your people?”

The Goddess had told him the way he were to help Emrys would show itself. “If that is what you wish, Emrys,” he replied, hoping he that was the answer Emrys wished for.

The warlock replied with a blank look on his face, and merely sighed, then gestured for Iseldir to lead him on, while handing back the robe and magically drying himself. Iseldir could do but nod and lead. Even the most powerful of wizards, magic incarnate, would be too tired to talk after, what seemed like nearly drowning.

The walk to his camp took a day on foot. They travelled from dawn to dusk, to when the moon filled the night sky again. Once they spotted a silver-winged creature of magic soaring among the stars, and Iseldir swore he could see the introspective wizard smile.

He had seen the dragon before. Sometimes, in his camp, they had been able to spot the white flash of hope soaring above the trees and sky. The white creature might appear crooked, but the fact that it was flying freely outside control meant a good omen for these lands to come.

Emrys had not only made sure the man who took the triskelion had not reached the dragon’s egg, but Emrys himself had hatched it, too. A dragonlord was unheard of these days, though it barely surprised Iseldir the warlock possessed such powers.

As they walked in contemplative silence towards his camp – it would not be far now – Iseldir felt the strange need to question the man beside him on his destiny. The death of the Pendragon had stopped Emrys from rising to his full potential, yet Iseldir, like any faithful druid, would trust in the Goddess’ plans for the world they created. That said, it was alright to question, especially when it came to the issue of the future of magic in the world.

“Emrys,” determined to find out what the warlock’s quest in his camp was, he began talking. “Might I ask after the purpose of your visit to our people?” It felt odd enough talking to Emrys out in the open, away from those with prying ears and dark desires, but to question a man he held in high respect might turn out fruitless.

Instead, Iseldir was greeted by surprise on Emrys’ part, for his eyes grew wide and his eyebrows shot up. “You don’t know… Why I want to go to the druids?” He cast his gaze down, “and here I thought you knew everything. Always warning me about things. And stuff.”

The look in the warlock’s eyes made him look younger than Iseldir guessed him to be. “One cannot know all, Emrys. It seems we both misjudged each other’s understanding of the situation. The Gods have an interesting plan for us, indeed.” A half-smile formed on his face then, and he turned towards the warlock, realising much like Mordred, the man held a destiny as a man, not a legend. They had both misinterpreted their knowledge of what was to come.

“She said I had to go to the druids. I was pretty sure I could’ve found you on my own, but it seemed like she helped me out there,” Emrys chuckled. “She told me to swear loyalty to her.” He looked questioningly, “Is there a ritual for that?”

“I’m afraid there is no ritual for an oath of loyalty to the Goddess, Emrys. Loyalty to her comes in the form of your actions, no formal ritual required.” Emrys seemed happy at that, so Iseldir continued, “we have almost reached the camp, Emrys. Then the Goddess will reveal the purpose of this quest you embark on.”

They walked towards the entrance of the camp marked by scraps of cloth, but easily spotted by the sounds of playing children, idle chatter, dinner being taken care of, and magic being practiced. Without Emrys accompanying the knights in secrecy, they were able to continue their daily lives in peace.

The children starting playing around them as soon as they entered, unbothered by their surroundings, and Emrys seemed amused by their playful nature. While Emrys was distracted taking in the camp’s many activities, Iseldir noticed an odd face in the crowd. The man stood out, holding himself with the kind of airs Iseldir only knew one kind would wear. However, this same man did not seem to be threatening the people around him, and was in fact leisurely eating an apple while talking to one of the healers.

Emrys now seemed to notice the man, and immediately his face stood slack-jawed with surprise. He halted in his steps, and just continued to stare at him. The man noticed Emrys then, and simply waved at him, tossed his apple to the side, and walked with simple tread towards the warlock.

When the man stood not five steps away from Emrys, Iseldir swore he could have heard the warlock whisper “Gwaine.”

\-----------------------------------

The last thing Gwaine recalled before he closed his eyes, was the soft feeling of Percival’s forehead resting on his, followed by the taste of his lips. After the endless pain in his body, from bone to skin, the feeling was like bliss that let his mind drift off to an endless aether. Floating he reached above the sky into the shining light of the day. He was free, but lost in nothingness. He saw his friend get driven off by those who claimed they could save him, but drifting off he figured nothing could.

The distinct smell of ripe sweetened apples hit his nostrils as he woke from his lucid state. He opened his eyes, and saw nothing but the brightest, greenest grass he’d ever seen for miles on end. His wrists no longer hurt, nor did he feel strain in his back and legs.

He was still tied up to the trees, that much he could guess. They had changed in shape and size, however. They were no longer as tall, nor as broad. It seemed they held apples, too. Bright, shiny, red, succulent apples. He’d almost forgotten how long since he last had food.

In any case, he needed to get out of those restraints, and soon. While they didn’t do him much harm, it was annoying to sit around in that position. _Besides, those juicy apples would not eat themselves._

He pulled the cords he was tied to, but it did nothing but jiggle. The high pitched clanging of the metal was mixed with dulcet tones of female laughter. He tried to look in every direction for the source, but ended up shaking his head without as much seeing anyone.

For a moment, dread filled his body as he feared Morgana had conjured this world to torture him alone. He calmed when he remembered she’d left straight for Arthur after she’d broken him down.

Then, out of the mists that swept over the meadow in the distance, he saw a feminine figure walking towards him. Several figures, to be exact. Limber bodies rose up from the mists laughing and skipping among the grass he was crouched in. They stared, whistled and talked, but none came closer.

One swayed towards him, mirth in her eyes, who were clouded by the same colour of red the apples had. Initially appalled, Gwaine was now interested, for he wondered _what creature had red eyes and white hair? Surely they were creatures of magic, any dobber could see that, but their intentions were unclear._

It was then when she began to speak. “Strength. I see you have found your way into our world before your time.” The creature cocked her head the side and smiled, revealing almost pointed teeth, “what a pity.” She came closer towards him, and crouched so her hands rested on her knees.

“Where did you take me? Where are you keeping me? Release me!” Gwaine uttered, hoping that the creature would at least answer one of those if he was lucky. At least in Morgana’s clutches he knew what to expect.

“Hush now, friend. We are but friendly spirits here to help you.” She placed her index finger on his lips, lingered there for a moment, and then brought the tip to her lips. “The High Priestess has a habit of bringing destined ones to places they shouldn’t be, so the Moon has asked us to make sure you get back to where you belong.”

Gwaine leaned back at that, confused by her statement. “So does that mean you’ll release me, creature? I’d prefer to talk about whatever the hell you’re on about, out from these chains.”

She stood up then, and undid the restraints on the trees as well as his arms. He did not move during, for his weapon was missing and there a lot more of those creatures hiding in the mist, for his every move was followed by glints of red in a sea of white clouds.

“You are free. Stand,” she said as she undid the last of his chains. As she lifted away from his bounds, her hair fell to one side, leaving white blossoms in its trace that flittered down to the ground. Those same white blossoms formed part of her dress, he noticed then, and did nothing to hide any appeal she possessed.

A small smirk appeared on her red lips, as she noticed. “You are not needed in this world yet. Strength is to return during the trials, which can only happen if all is in balance.”

Gwaine looked up at her as he rubbed over his wrists, “I have no clue what you’re on about, but I’ll take your word for it. Now tell me, how do I get out of here?”

“You were needed to protect him, but in the end she turned your very nature against you. Courage requires strength, and strength needs courage. You will return to return to us. Do not worry, for if you wish to leave, you only need to close your eyes and wish you were.”

Truth be told, Gwaine could not string a single bit of logic on that statement. “Wish… I were? Were what?” He gestured to the air around him, to which she mimicked his movements.

“Simply were. Remember Gwaine, you are in the world of Others. This is not a dream nor are you dead. You are in between, and are not what you were. Remember, and you shall return.”

Gwaine glared at her at the mention of his name, but decided that it would be better to trust her judgement, and closed his eyes. She moved closer to him, as he could feel her breath feathering his face, and anticipation filled his stomach, for he might relive the moment with the lips he touched last.

He felt the world around him moving, even if he did not move at all. A dizzying madness moved from his head to eyes, and was only made worse when he felt a pair of sweet, plump lips touch his. They tasted like apples.

\-----------------------------------

He opened his eyes. Pain returned, but only as a faint touch on his skin. Tiredness filled his bones, however, and he found himself unable to move much. He was covered in a thick blanket, and apparently slept in in some kind of tent. While Gwaine was very much used to waking up in strange beds, after the ordeal with the slavers he at least made sure he knew how he ended up there in the first place.

When he looked around, he noticed nothing more than the regular things that would fill a home. Now, instead of smelling apples, he smelled a dull fire burning outside, and the freshness of a forest dewed. He heard children playing outside, laughter, and a strange language he swore he’d heard before…

Startled he shot up from his bed, and was instantly rewarding by a stab in the side. A low groan escaped his mouth, and the laughter close to his tent stopped. He heard footsteps coming near, and saw a strange figure pulling back its cloth.

“You’re awake!” The figure spoke, as startled as he was, “by the Gods you’re awake! Quickly, come, he’s woken up!” Gwaine felt a scowl form on his face, as he now realised where he had ended up. A druid camp. The best he could hope for was that the druids’ loyalty belonged to Arthur rather than Morgana.

They proved to be a calm and peaceful people, loyalty belonging only among themselves and their gods. They treated him well enough, and he was not hesitant to return their kindness. They provided him with food, shelter, clothes, and most important of all, answers.

They had found him in the woods, they claimed. Tied up to trees, affected by the serpent’s venom. He had been near over the brink of death, his last breath had just left his body, but they found it still warm and living. His friend had been watching over him, unable to return to shelter to harbour his body, and had willingly given his friend to the druids when they told him they could heal him.

He had been taken by them, and nursed until his breath returned, his wounds healed, and his cheeks coloured. They did not rid of his body, for his soul might return to him, they said. Fact is, they found him wearing his knight’s armour and he was forever grateful they didn’t leave him out in the cold to die.

Over the course of three days he had stayed with them, the last of his injuries healed. He found the druids were a lot like the various people he’d come across on during his journeys all around Albion. They were a practical people, but the biggest thing he’d have to get accustomed to was the free and inhibited use of magic.

He saw it everywhere. They used it for the simplest of chores, conjured flowers out of nothing, cleaned water from a still stream, and even created figures out of air for play. Just yesterday he’d seen a young boy call forth a serpent ebbing on the flames of the cooking fire, dancing in its embers, lighting up into the sky. He’d seen plenty of magic before but he never once saw spells being used as a part of life.

The boy had tried to teach him to conjure such a beast, but had been disappointed to find out Gwaine could not, in fact, perform magic. The people watching them simply smiled and said that in his innocence he had proved Gwaine’s.

On the third evening, the druid leader returned with someone. Supposedly a powerful sorcerer with an equally impressive destiny, the druids looked kindly on him. Only when he heard his name did he recognize it himself, Emrys. The sorcerer who had called lightning to blaze on the battlefield against the Saxons, who had called off that white dragon, and who had saved most of the troops.

As this Emrys was trusted by such a peaceful people, and had protected him and his knights, initial fright left him, replaced by a kind of eagerness to see the bearded man up close.

Just as he was done speaking with the woman who healed him, and was eating this delicious green apple, the druid leader returned. For a moment Gwaine could not see the face of the person behind, but quickly realised he knew exactly who was next to his side. Merlin.

They sat down then, in equal silence, after Merlin gestured for him to speak somewhere private. Near the fires the cold of the winter’s night was durable, but Gwaine felt his body warm up just from the sight of seeing his friend, mixed with anger of being lied to.

Merlin looked at him then. “I have magic,” he stated with his characteristic bashful smile. Gwaine’s face contorted to something reminiscent of disapproval, but fell after he sighed. Merlin’s eyes cast away quickly to the fire, and he fell quiet once again.

“I don’t mind your magic, Merlin. From what I’ve heard, and seen, you’ve pretty much saved most of us. Though I have to admit I’m kind of curious how you went from your scraggly self to an old scraggly man. The beard was impressive, I’ll give you that,” Gwaine laughed.

Truth be told, he’d rather stay in the dark to when it came to the full extent of Merlin’s magical abilities, as his mind needed to make a slight adjustment from Merlin the manservant to Merlin the wizard. Merlin smiled warmly at that, but still did not look him in the eye. “Then… What–”

“You never once told me Merlin. I mean, those tricks you used could’ve been very helpful when fighting. Remember those wyverns? If only you could’ve–” he stopped for a moment, as his mind remembered, “–you made them go away didn’t you?” He sighed again. “I’m your friend Merlin. I ask that you trust me, simple as that. Besides. I kind of had an idea there was something more to you.”

Merlin’s smile grew larger, but his eyes showed sadness. “I know I could’ve trusted you. But I couldn’t bring myself to actually do it. Besides, you’d be in league with a sorcerer. That’s against the law, you know,” he chuckled, which quickly stopped. “I’m too used to hiding for it to be in the open like this.”

Gwaine could understand that. He was a man who held many secrets himself, something he’d learn to keep after trial and error. He supposed they both had to unlearn secrecy and establish a new kind of trust.

After chatting amicably about dealings of the last couple of months, and being told of the wreckage it had on the lands of Albion, Gwaine decided that they should leave for Camelot city the next morning. It took him some persuasion, but he knew they would both be better off in the citadel than wandering around aimlessly. For once in his life, he needed to settle down.

And so they walked out of the camp, packed and ready, on foot to Camelot, and continued their talk on Merlin’s lost secret.

\-----------------------------------

The Goddess had spoken to her. Magic would live in the hands of man, but she needed another vessel. Her daughter would not do. Nyneve would have to create a new child of the moon. Another High Priestess.

**Author's Note:**

> \--- Reader, you might wonder "jeez Merlin, don't you at least need to pack up well if you're sleeping in the middle of winter outside?" Thing is if you're willing to just /die/ you don't really care about /how/ you'll get to that point. Also, TFW you just want to drown but a watery tart won't let you :\
> 
> \--- During Iseldir's POV more like:  
> Merlin @ the Goddess: You know I could’ve found the druid camp on my own, you know!  
> The Goddess: Yea but this is quicker. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> \--- Gwaine was with the druids for those 2 months, but out of that time he was conscious for only 3 days.


End file.
